


Birds of America

by twistedchick



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bird-watching with Jim and Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of America

##### Yellow Warbler

  


###### (Dendroica petechia)

Blair sat down on the couch, television controller in one hand and a pen and pad in the other. He rested the pad on his thigh while he flipped through the stations, scribbling out a shopping list.

Milk pasteurized, non-homogenized, organic  
Elastic bandages all sizes  
Veggies  
Fruit  
Meat

It never made sense to write down which veggies or which meat unless he had a specific recipe in mind. It was easier to just see what was available, what looked good, and go on from there. Jim hadn't minded the lasagne with zucchini, though he'd turned his nose up at the purple sweet pepper until he tasted it, and then he'd insisted on eating it with his eyes shut, smiling all the while.

"COME to me, my MELancholy BAAAAY-bee " issued forth from the bathroom, about three times as loud as the sound of the water.

Blair grinned and shook his head. Who would have believed that the flip side of the silent, stoic cop was a laid-back crooner who sang really bad music in the shower? Great way to scare off the bad guys.

Jim snored, too, like a freight train in a tunnel. It must have been a side effect of getting his nose broken too many times since he joined Major Crime, because Jim swore he'd never snored when he was in the Rangers. Even with the enhanced hearing he never heard himself doing it unless he had a cold, and then he'd always swear that it was the cold that woke him up. It hadn't mattered when Blair was sleeping downstairs, but when they started to share a bed Blair decided he really needed to take matters in hand.

Fruit juice or fresh oranges to squeeze  
Coffee Ethiopian? Sumatran? Colombian?  
Condoms  
Earplugs (large box)

 

##### Crow

  


###### (Corvus corvus)

"Hey, Blair, give me a hand here."

"What?"

"Wouldn't this look good in the loft?"

"Jim, c'mon. Get real here. You griped about the tribal masks I put up, and you gave me hell about leaving my books around. Why would you want to hang a chrome bumper on the wall?"

"Because it came off my first car?"

"Really? Your first car?"

"Same model, same year."

"Not your actual, physical first car, right?"

"Jeez. Were you like this before you became a detective?"

"All the time. You never noticed."

"I noticed everything, Buster Brown. So, you don't like my bumper."

"Well, Jim, I never would've put you down for a member of the Shiny Things Aesthetic Appreciation Association."

"Oh, well. It was a thought. It would've matched the dining room table, though."

"That's brushed aluminum."

"Still shiny."

"And you don't have to polish it."

"Good point. Hold on a minute; I want to see if I can find deer whistles for the truck."

"More shiny stuff. I knew it."

"No, they come in black, too."

"Perfect for that white-tie museum opening the Mayor wants us to work next week."

"You never can tell when these things are going to come in handy."

"Hey, if they keep the insurance premiums down they're worth it. You could put a whole row of them along the front bumper, like shark teeth."

"Sandburg, they're supposed to annoy the deer by making an unpleasant sound, not chew them to pieces."

"Aren't they going to bother *your* hearing?"

"No, dear."

"Ouch."

"Serves you right. And by the way, I did see that package of earplugs you snuck into the cart."

"Then you know why I'm wearing them."

"Yep. And that's all you're wearing."

"Did I say otherwise?"

"Shh. We're in the hardware store, f'godsake."

"Oh, right. I forgot this was the Holy of Holies. Which way is the altar I should bow before, in abject apology? On second thought, forget it. There's no way to profane a hardware store."

"Already done."

"Huh?"

"Look at all that frilly housewares stuff. Curtains. Makeup trays."

"You might have a -- oh, hi, Megan. Didn't know you shopped here."

"Hello, Blair, Jim. You know, this is the only place in town where I can find a proper drying rack for my jumpers?"

"That's very interesting, Megan. Isn't that interesting, Jim?"

"Yep."

"So, what are you boys looking for?"

"Stuff. Things. You know."

"I believe I do. Oh, there's Claudia. See you later. And Jim?"

"Hmm?"

"Hang the bumper off the upper floor of the loft, over Blair's old room. You can use it for drying your jumpers."

"Sweaters."

"Whatever. They're too long for a conventional drying rack. Bye."

"You know, Jim, she's got a point..."

"Right on top of her head."

"You should dry your sweaters flat instead of throwing them into the dryer."

"So they get a little stretched out. It doesn't bother me."

"Or they shrink, but hey, that's not my problem. Your shrinkage, my wardrobe."

"Hmm. Is she gone?"

"Yeah."

"Let's take a look at one of those drying racks while we're here. You know, I could build something like this..."

 

##### American Robin

  


###### (T. migratorius)

The sweater wasn't a color Jim usually wore, but Blair kept staring at it anyway. He could just imagine Jim wearing it in the winter, the warm deep color making his skin glow and his eyes sparkle.

It was silk, not cashmere; almost as expensive, but not itchy even to Sentinel skin at its most sensitive. The label indicated that the sweater should be dry cleaned, but Blair knew that he could always wash it on delicate, role it up in a towel and then lay it out on the extra-large drying rack Jim had built that just fitted under his old desk, and that would work just as well.

And it was on sale.

He'd have to buy it quickly, before Jim returned from his self-imposed migration to the donut shop to investigate whatever had been baked overnight. Jim swore he had to do this every Saturday to maintain quality control, though he usually said that while waving a buttermilk raised cruller with a bite out of it.

The saleswoman not only took his money but was willing to wrap the sweater in elegant light blue paper with a deep blue bow and have it dropped off at Henri Brown's house, so he could sneak it into the loft without Jim noticing. What was the point of trying to surprise someone for his birthday if he saw the package?

Blair caught a glimpse of Jim through the store window and hastened out of the menswear department. He made it to the ladies' scarves in time to ask Jim whether the orange shawl would be a good present for Naomi, but he didn't really pay attention to Jim's answer. Instead, his mind was filled with a vision of Jim in black leather jacket and black jeans, and a cranberry sweater, whistling cheerfully and ever so slightly out of tune.

 

##### Mourning Dove

  


###### (Zenaida macroura)

Jim pushed back his night-time eyeshade and glared. Sunday morning, 4 a.m., the first night in six that he'd had a chance at a decent sleep, and Sandburg had all the lights on and was doing ... what was he doing? It sounded like a hound digging in old leaves downstairs..

He sat up and stared over the railing. Sure enough, there was Blair, flipping through papers and typing furiously into his old laptop at the table.

"Sandburg, what the fuck?"

"Sorry, Jim, but I've got to get this done."

"What? It's four in the fucking morning. Can't it wait, whatever it is?"

"Quarterly taxes. And no, it can't wait; they were due when the post office closed yesterday."

"Monahan took care of it."

"For you, maybe. For me, no. I forgot to give you the paperwork from my few puny investments, so I've got to finish this and get it in. They'll probably charge me more as a penalty than I was going to pay in taxes, but that's how it goes."

"Sandburg." No answer other than more typing. "Blair." Still no answer.

Jim got to his feet and lumbered down the stairs. When he reached the table he put his hand in front of the computer screen.

"Please, Jim, I'll get it done as fast as I can."

"It's already done."

"But --"

"I gave your stuff to Monahan and told him to do it as well."

"But --"

"You'd left the last couple of statements from the investments on your old desk, so I took them with me, and Monahan said he'd take care of it, no trouble. So the paperwork's filed, okay?"

"But --" Blair blinked behind his glasses. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were asleep when I got home, so I figured I'd let you know in the morning."

Blair let out a long soft sound. "You know, I really hate this working-different-shifts shit. We never see each other. Let me just save this data; you know if I don't, something will happen and I'll have to do it all over again later." He pressed a few keys. "I want Simon back from vacation now. No, last week."

"Last week, definitely." He watched as Blair carefully stacked the paperwork on top of the closed laptop and set a small rock on top of it. "Come back to bed?"

"Sorry I woke you up."

"We don't have to sleep."

"Want to do some quality testing?"

"On what?" Jim wasn't really awake enough to be suspicious.

"Condoms. There are all sorts of things we could compare about them, and then we could write a letter of recommendation to the manufacturer. If they pass all the tests, that is." Blair yawned suddenly. "Maybe they'd make us spokesmodels or something."

"Spokesmodels. Right. Simon would have a cow." Jim yawned in response. "I don't want to think about the pictures they'd take."

"Hey, protect and serve is my life, man. And you know condoms save lives."

"Right. Any time." Jim yawned. "Even at 4:08 a.m." But he smiled as Blair put his glasses aside and walked, hand in hand, back up the stairs with him.

 

##### Great Blue Heron

  


###### (Ardea herodias)

The truck felt cold inside. Something had to be wrong with the heater again, even after they'd spent hours fixing it a month earlier when the weather was still sunny and warm.

Blair shivered.

Without turning away from his view of the road, Jim handed him the thermos. "Have some more coffee. Your teeth sound like castanets."

"Thanks."

"C'mon, you bastard, just show me a little, just a little." Jim was muttering under his breath, as if Arnold Simmons could hear him from a hundred yards away. "Just show me."

Simmons, down the street at his own house, paused beside his car as if he'd heard something.

"That guy's not another Sentinel, is he, Jim?"

"Nah. Too stupid."

Blair nodded to himself. Say what you might about Jim's blonde former nemesis, she was intelligent, probably too much for her own good. Simmons wasn't anywhere near her level, or Jim's; he was just a small-time shyster who might have found a way to get the big money with a bullet. They could have just gone straight up to the house and knocked on the door, as Simmons was only wanted for questioning, but Jim had a hunch more was going on, so they were parked in this little backwater of a street, waiting.

The light from the street lamp poured into the dark truck, striking Jim's face below his baseball cap and making his nose look longer and, somehow, yellow. Blair wondered whether that was a high-pressure or low-pressure sodium vapor light or whether it was something else altogether. Jim wore a creamy turtleneck sweater under the faded denim jacket; it showed a little at the throat.

Blair shifted in his seat, feeling the warmth of the coffee through the cup.

"Better?" Jim asked.

"Yeah." As Blair spoke, Jim stiffened. "What?" Blair stared at the dark garage; there might have been some indistinct movement, but he couldn't see anything clearly.

"He just put a couple of guns into the back of the car, not the trunk. We've got him."

Simmons backed his car out of the driveway and -- the man really was stupid -- turned toward them. As soon as he was past the cross-street and couldn't turn in the narrow lane eddying between the houses, Jim roared the truck into gear and pulled it across to block the road.

The car Simmons drove skidded to a stop, narrowly missing the truck but so close that Blair couldn't open his door. As he pushed himself across to go out the other side, he saw Jim move swiftly around the truck to intercept Simmons. Jim's arm snaked out to grab Simmons' jacket as the man was halfway out of the car; Simmons sprawled, crablike, against his vehicle while his rights were being read.

Blair shook his head, called for a squad car for backup, and smiled.

 

##### Pileated Woodpecker

  


###### (Dryocopus pileatus)

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Blair glanced across the bullpen toward his desk, turned back to Henri Brown and shook his head.

Tap-tap.

"Technical Services falling down on the job again?" Brown murmured.

Tappety.

"Yeah. Jim's computer was supposed to be back a week ago."

Tap ... tap.

Brown shook his head. "He should've remembered computers don't drink coffee."

Tap. Ta-tap.

"Simon should've remembered not to tell his latest joke while Jim's trying to finish a report," Blair whispered.

"I heard that!" came from across the room. "And I hate this keyboard, Sandburg. Why can't you have a normal keyboard like everyone else?"

"Because I type better on this one. It works for me."

"And it moves every time I try to type on it."

Tappety-tappety-tap.

Silence.

Backspace-backspace-backspace-backspace-backspace-backspace.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

##### Black-capped Chickadee

  


###### (Parus atricapillus)

"Hey, Jim, where'd you put the hammer?" Blair asked, coming in from the hall with an armload of groceries. "We've got some nails coming up on the door frame."

"Which hammer?" Jim's voice came from above him.

"Any of them." Blair put the milk and cheese in the refrigerator and reached for a head of cauliflower. "I'm not picky."

"Okay. Catch."

Blair dropped the cauliflower in the bin, closed the fridge door and turned to catch a ball-peen hammer with his left hand. "Thanks." He put it aside on the counter and emptied the second bag of groceries. "I thought you were going to use the ladder for that."

"Mike in 201 borrowed it to put up a new overhead light in the closet. I told him I could manage without it," Jim said, his voice cheerfully matter-of-fact.

"Guess so," Blair said, watching Jim swing himself up to grab the top bar of the railing, move a few feet along with his knees looped over the lower railing, and swing back, head down, to refasten the ceiling trim above Blair's old room. The trim had gotten loose a month ago when Cascade had felt a minor earth tremor, but with their work schedule neither of them had been able to do more than glare at it on the way to bed.

Jim tapped the last tack into place, swung up and pulled himself through between the bars. He dropped the tool belt, which he'd worn upside down, on the bed and came down the stairs. "What's for lunch?'

"Oh, little of this, little of that." Blair grinned at him. "No more coffee for you today."

"Why?'

"You're pretty wired, man. How many cups did you have while I was out?"

"No more than usual. And you're the one that's usually upside down."

"That's yoga, Jim, not house repair."

"Same difference. More blood to the brain, different way of thinking, isn't that what you told me?"

"You keep this up, I'm going to have to stock up on the sunflower seeds."

"Oh, I'll settle for another buttermilk donut."

 

##### Lesser Prairie Chicken

  


###### (Tympanuchus pallidicinctus)

Jim winced as the jukebox started on Prince's "Kiss". Something about the high notes made his ears buzz. Or was it a fragment of paper from that printing company warehouse they'd run through a few hours earlier? He put his little finger into his ear but didn't notice any real change in the quality of his hearing and compensated by reducing the volume on that side, while scanning the bar for signs of Blair.

Blair was balancing three drinks in two hands while gesturing as he spoke. It was amazing that he hadn't managed to spill anything yet. He was also moving to the music, ever so carefully, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in time to ... Jim counted ... not the beat, but the alternate off beat. Very subtle. He hoped that Blair's listeners, Serena and the new forensics assistant who was replacing Sam, were properly appreciative.

Actually, watching that backside move to the off backbeat, he felt pretty appreciative himself. Blair probably didn't even realize he was moving like that. Blair was just being Blair, listening to Serena's assistant talk and swaying to the music.

"Hey, you okay?" Brown asked. "Two Sam Adams and a draft Bass, please," he told the bartender.

"Sound system in here needs tuning." Jim shrugged. "The tweeter's really off."

"Well, the song doesn't help much. Thanks." Brown dropped a ten on the bar, picked up the bottles in one hand and the pilsener glass in the other and started back through the crowd. When he reached Serena, she moved aside for him to go past, and he said something in her ear that made her throw her head back, startled, then laugh broadly as she turned aside. Blair and the assistant turned with her, so that Jim could finally see Blair's face.

Blair winked at him, across the room.

Jim shook his head, a reluctant smile on his lips. Subtlety and Sandburg had never really been a matched pair. It was just as well, overall, but he wasn't going to make any moves here. He raised an eyebrow, and received a faint nod in return. The jukebox slithered into another oldie, "Year of the Cat", as Jim sipped his ale and nibbled on the bar's free pretzels and other munchies. "What's this?" he asked the bartender, pointing at a bowl of nuts, chips and what looked like breakfast cereal.

"Cocktail mix, if you'll believe that. It's something the boss's wife makes."

"Not bad," Jim admitted. "A little salty. She doesn't need that much soy sauce when there's already celery salt and garlic salt. Not that I'm complaining," he added, snagging another handful.

"I'll let her know." The bartender grinned as he turned to help another customer.

Cocktail mix. More like birdseed with spices, but it tasted all right for now even if it did make him run through the rest of his ale in swallows rather than sips. He didn't want another, not yet.

"Hey, Jim. You want to get some dinner here or head out? Carlotta, over there, invited us along if we want barbecue. Her cousin's got a place out by the shore." Blair had, apparently, handed the other two drinks off to Serena and Carlotta. He set a mostly finished Pete's Wicked Ale on the bar.

"You're suggesting barbecue? You? Mr. 'Your-Arteries-Will-Harden'?"

Blair grinned. "Did I say what they'd be barbecuing?" He took a long drink and set the nearly empty bottle on the bar.

"Um, no."

Blair's eyebrows inclined, declined and all but reclined as the light caught the smile in his eyes.

"I think I'll pass for now." Jim shook his head. "I was thinking of something ..." he hid the implied words behind his last swallow of beer, "else for dinner."

"Okay, I'll give her a raincheck." And he was off through the crowd again to make their excuses.

Jim picked up Blair's bottle and finished it in one mouthful. The beer tasted of smoke and a little of Blair's aftershave, and a lot of Blair himself. He put the bottle down carefully on a bar mat and let himself enjoy the flavor. When he saw Blair leaving Serena, he started the careful walk through the crowd that would take him to the bar's side door so that he'd reach it just after Blair.

The bar was three long blocks from the loft, and the rain was holding off although Jim could smell it in the air. The two of them paced each other in sociable silence for two blocks. When they reached the third block, Blair walked a little closer, just close enough to brush against Jim's leg or hip as he moved, every third step or so.

Jim licked his lips, slowly, knowing he was being watched, and heard Blair's swift breath.

They walked faster.

Blair tripped, on his way up the stairs, but caught himself before Jim could touch him. That was a good thing, for the neighbors' sake.

He wouldn't have been able to hold back any longer.

As it was, they both made it into the apartment, and closed the door, and locked it. Blair moved slowly now, hanging his coat up next to the door, walking across the dark room toward the french doors by the balcony. Jim stood by the door, smelling Blair, hearing him move, sensing by the disturbance in air currents -- and the scent of the man -- where he walked. A soft rustle told him that Blair had taken off his shirt and dropped it on the couch; a quiet ratchet informed him that Blair's zipper was moving down, ever so slowly.

Then, stillness except for breath ringing slightly as its dampness struck the glass of a pane on the french door.

When Jim moved, after he could wait no longer, he went the long way around the couch so that his feet would touch only wood. By the time he reached Blair, he was naked, shoes and socks having been toed off silently at the door, clothing discarded quietly over a chair. He stopped a measured two inches behind Blair, close enough that they could feel the warmth of each other's presence, far enough that they did not touch at any point.

Blair smelled warm, a little sweaty with that end-of-the-day tang, and more than a little ready. Jim could see, over Blair's shoulder, the puff of dark hair touched faintly by the streetlight, and the firm flesh rising from it, starting to drip.

"I thought you were hungry," Blair whispered.

Jim's voice lowered, roughened. "You have no idea."

"Show me." He stood motionless, waiting, eyes closed.

Jim backed away one step, moved soundlessly past him, careful not to stir the air and give himself away, until he stood in front, blocking the light etching Blair's musculature. He murmured, punctuating the words with the faintest of kisses as he slipped to his knees, "I ... didn't ... say ... what ... I ... was ... hungry ... for."

The first wet lick started at the root and wrapped itself inevitably around the tip. It nearly lifted Blair to his toes with its intensity and gentleness. With the next one he slid one hand onto a broadly muscled shoulder and laced the fingers of the other through soft bristled hair to cup the back of Jim's head lightly. He knew Jim didn't need any more encouragement than that.

Neither of them did.

Jim's chiseled fingers slid between his legs and around his hips, securing him, anchoring him. A soft fingertip toyed between his cheeks, and he gasped and felt himself slip deeper into Jim's mouth. The fingertip didn't intrude, it only tapped, gently, repetitively, as if asking for permission, then retreated and returned to stroke and tap again, in rhythm with the long deep stroking licks and caresses in front. Tap. Tap. Lap. Lap. It was as if he were thrumming to a hidden rhythm, like a high telegraph wire in the prarie wind. He slid his feet sideways, opening himself a little more.

Maddening. It was heat and fire. It was hotter than electricity, more basic than stone. Jim set up the rhythm, and Blair supplied the counterpoint, and it built like a thunderstorm on the horizon until the lightning crackled inside him and he came, hard, shooting into Jim's mouth, his muscles clenching around Jim's fingers.

And as he caught his breath (air on fire, not water) Jim licked him, nuzzled his thighs and murmured, "Would you like an appetizer also, sir, or would you prefer to move on to the main course?"

Blair stepped out of his crumpled jeans and moved back out of the light. Jim followed.

"There's a reason," Blair whispered, "why I won't let you get rid of that old cotton blanket over the back of the couch." He leaned forward over the blanket, reaching for the hollow behind the cushions where the couch was starting to show its wear.

"And that is?" Jim took the small tube from Blair's outstretched hand. His other hand slid down Blair's naked back from neck to legs and back again, luxuriating in the warm, slightly furred texture.

"It washes so well." Blair rested his hands on the seat and tilted his hips. "Main course, please."

"You only had to ask." Jim's voice softened but what slid between Blair's cheeks and slowly, inevitably stretched him and filled him was anything but soft. Well-lubed and well placed, it brushed that small pleasure gland and rested against it, rubbing against it with every move.

Blair arched his back and purred. Jim's hands slid down over his hips and held him steady as Jim moved, never speeding up, staying slow, staying hard and steady, drilling him, making him whimper and howl and beg without words.

And then the rhythm changed, stopped, slowed for a moment, then sped up and over the edge for both of them in a rush.

As Jim came back to himself, he was draped over Blair over the couch, both of them dripping in the darkness, quivering together. "Take-out again, right?" he heard Blair whisper.

"Yeah. Jade Mountain or Antonio's."

"Antonio's. I've just had the jade mountain special of the day, and it was ... delicious."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in a zine by Blackfly Press.


End file.
